


put it on and stand before my eyes

by Blake



Series: 30 Days of Depeche Mode Bagginshield ficlets [13]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, I'm sorry Frodo, M/M, Mithril, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24122524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Thorin feels something special about seeing Bilbo in the mithril shirt andonlythe mithril shirt.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: 30 Days of Depeche Mode Bagginshield ficlets [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705147
Comments: 12
Kudos: 112





	put it on and stand before my eyes

It’s not that there’s anything lacking in what has come to be the _usual_ way Thorin touches him, looks at him, and generally treats him like the greatest prize in all of Middle Earth. It’s just that the way Thorin touches him, looks at him, and generally treats him like the greatest prize in all of Middle Earth _when he’s wearing the mithril shirt_ all suggest that Thorin feels something special about the sight.

Wearing nothing but the mithril and trying not to appear as cold as he is, he shuffles into the sitting room of Bag End and finds Thorin smoking by the fire. For one second, Bilbo regrets his timing, for he so enjoys the simple pleasure of watching Thorin smoke by the fire in the sitting room of Bag End, and he knows without a doubt that his arrival will be the end of that.

But then his arrival is the end of that, and he can no longer have any regrets about anything he ever did in his life, because Thorin drops to his knees. His rough-soft hands slip under the garment, warmer against Bilbo’s thin skin than the cool metal is. Thorin presses his face against Bilbo’s stomach through the shirt, fragments of his smoky, reverent gasps filtering through that which no blade can pierce.

Bilbo lets the consonants of Thorin’s native tongue wash over him without looking for meaning, preferring to recall his ignorance of the filthy, holy things Thorin is capable of calling him in such a state. Instead, he parts Thorin’s hair with his fingers until it fills his palm, and then he pulls his head back until the clouds in Thorin’s eyes part and a grateful little smile graces his lips.

Looking carefully into those eyes, Bilbo addresses him, “My beloved.” It’s plain and simple, as rustic as he is, a blunt reminder of what Thorin chose, what he chose to dress in shining silver steel, what he worships. “Is this what you were looking for?” He cups Thorin’s bearded jaw with his free hand and positions him just so, parted lips just beside the curve in the mithril where Bilbo’s cock is pushing up against the ever-surprisingly soft material.

Thorin sits back halfway to his heels and bends forward to get a proper angle. The sight of those lips and tongue searching out the shape of him weakens Bilbo’s knees—but that’s no matter, since Thorin’s firm grip on his hips is what’s keeping him upright more than anything else. There’s saliva catching like jewels in the divots of the chain, silver twinkling in the gold flickers of firelight. Bilbo would like to look at the sight all day, but it’s winding him up much faster than he can find any relief in the faint traces of sensation that manage to trickle through that which no blade can pierce.

So he lets go of Thorin’s jaw and draws the mithril up high enough to expose a bit more of himself. Thorin’s hands on his hips are truly the only thing keeping him upright when Thorin buries his face under the hem, sucking what might just be Bilbo’s soul out through his testicles, the cradle of his mouth soft and sharp at the same time. His beard scraping Bilbo’s inner thighs would be devastating enough to his center of gravity, but his tongue laving over one, then the other, and then treasuring his whole sac all at once is really the end of Bilbo standing up at all.

“Wouldn’t want to get it dirty,” Bilbo comments breathlessly as he tugs the mithril up pointedly higher, even though they’ve gotten it dirty plenty of times before, and its durability is rather part of the point of it all. Thorin doesn’t seem to mind the poor excuse. He spares Bilbo the tiniest of smiles in acknowledgement before laying him out flat on his back on the sitting room floor. Bilbo might protest the location, but he’s too grateful to have Thorin’s hands freed from their burden, so that one might curl in the mithril bunched up across Bilbo’s ribcage, and the other might hold his cock still enough for Thorin to finally get his mouth on it.

_It’s not so bad, dressing up once in a while_ , Bilbo thinks as he tightens his fist in Thorin’s hair, clutching desperately for purchase as he lurches quickly toward a long, hard fall. _If it makes Thorin so very happy._


End file.
